Let Logic Lose
by hagiga
Summary: Sometimes both sides win in which case logic loses. And emotions won Sherlock. And Sherlock won emotions. But who said winning Molly would make any sense.


Oh the warm, fresh smell of cookies, making its way down your nose and pouring it's warmth into your depths like fine red wine. A light touch of the soft, slightly cold leafs of the Christmas tree, and the eerie lights spraying soft colorful hues on the walls of the living room. The cozy sofa and the warm, soft blanket on it, small pillows scattered randomly on it. And of course the clicking of burning wood in the fireplace, fueling the flames that create a light which paints an entire room with warm pastel orange.

And then Molly opened her eyes.

The sweet smell of cookies she imagined was overpowered by the reeking stench of sewage, the only source of warmth amongst the snow piled streets of Saint Petersburg were the two people standing next to the dark Neva river, exhaling misty white steam.

"Sherlock," Molly shivered and wrapped her arms around herself "we should get back, please, I'm freezing…"

Standing up from analyzing odd-looking skid signs on the road, he sighed and turned to look at her.

"Please! By all means Molly you can get back to the hotel if you want while I save my only 3 _acquaintances _back in London from getting shot without a single warning or idea why. I'm sure Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and John would highly appreciate knowing you thinking like that…" He spat. His eyes caught a young man on the opposite side of the street glaring at them. "Na-ka'vo te smotrich, durak?" Sherlock shouted in Russian at the man, after deducing him as just another homeless drunk, causing the lad to walk quickly away.

Molly simply tightened her arms around herself, blushing and muttering under her breath.

Crack!

Sherlock and Molly turned their heads in the direction of the noise.

Shouting.

Sherlock took off, Molly right behind him, they ended up hiding next to an entrance of an alleyway.

"What- who- what is-" Molly began.

"Shhhh!" Sherlock whispered aloud.

The voices rose from the shadows in the alleyway.

"Shto? Ve ne prinisly mai denge?

"Prasty, p-prasty mina y-ya dumel Moran ne chattel denge ya-"

Molly's heart beat faster when the word Moran echoed between the walls of the alley, and Sherlock translated "they're exchanging something, but the second man didn't bring money for… for something."

"Tagda shto te dumel kazol?! On chochit shekalad!?"

Sherlock chuckled. Unfortunately too loud…

"Kto tam!" _Who's there!_

Molly understood by the tone that they've heard them. Two footsteps echoed and Sherlock snatched the small brunette woman by her wrist and began running, only to realize there was practically no place to successfully hide.

And then. An idea. _Oh this is a bad idea, very bad. Terrible. But- _

"Molly," he panted, turning to her and looking into her tired yet panicked brown eyes "please let me apologize in advance."

"Huh?" her eyebrows knit in confusion, and then his hand was on the back of her head, the other holding her shoulder, protecting her from an injury when he practically threw her against a tall brick wall. He inhaled a deep breath and pressed his chest against hers. The hand behind her head dug into her hair, pulling her head upward while he bent his own downwards. She managed to mutter the beginning of his name before two plump lips landed on her mouth.

Her shoulders tensed.

A tremble traveled up her spine.

Her eyebrows shot upwards.

Sherlock heard the two man exit to the street and stop on their tracks. He opened his eyes just slightly, looking from the corner of his eye. _Damn _he thought as he saw they were still eyeing him and Molly. He wanted to whisper to her to be act more realistic, or their 'disguise' would not work, but fearing the two suspects would hear him he took matters into his owns hands. He swiftly made her hovering hands settle around his back and on his shoulders.

They stood still, only mouths attached. He wondered if the fact that she hadn't deepened the kiss was whether she understood Sherlock's intention or she was too shocked to respond.

"Kto ani?" _who are they?_

"Zakroy tvoy rot, pridurak. Shas ya pasmatru…"

Footsteps grew louder, they were still suspecting. Sherlock sighed in frustration. He'd have no choice but to either try to fight them or take this little show a little further. Now since the men were two and he was one, knowing full well Molly was not a violent person, he chose the second option. He slid his hand from Molly's shoulder to her mid-back and pressed himself closer to her. He let go of her lips and pulled his head back for his neck stiffened in his current position, his eye lids opened momentarily, catching Molly's flushed cheeks and reddened lips with a look full of desire in her chocolate colored eyes. Something stirred within him as his eyes shut and he titled his head in the opposite direction and pressed his lips to hers again. Molly sighed, her breath smelled like vanilla, he noted. _Why would he care for such thing? _

And then Sherlock opened his eyes.

He pulled his lips away from Molly's and realized that the two Russian men were gone. When looking closer, he noticed the traces left in the snow, made by the men's footsteps, were already covered with a newer layer of snow.

How much time has passed?

He turned to look at his companion. Molly's eyes were wide and sparkly, she looked down at her hands, one resting on his chest and the other thrown across the back of his neck.

"They're gone…" she whispered.

He waited until she steadied her eyes to his, caught a lock of her hair between his fingers and tucked it behind her ear, lingering two fingers on her skin there.

"I know…" He admitted, and bent down to catch her lips again.

Now don't get me wrong, Sherlock was a man that knew how to fight emotions, but in every battle there will be a winner and loser. Sometimes both sides lose, in which case reality wins. But in Sherlock's case, both sides win therefore logic loses. And what was the logic in kissing Molly Hooper in a snowy, freezing evening, in a street that smelled like wet soil. What was the logic, if they were not trying to hide anymore? What was the logic behind him feeling warm, almost burning, inside? How could that happen if it was only the skin of their lips that touched?

And finally, Sherlock and Molly opened their eyes.

Sometimes both sides win in which case logic loses.

And emotions won Sherlock.

And Sherlock won emotions.

But who said winning Molly would make any sense.


End file.
